


The Tumbleweed's Tale

by margdean56



Series: Holt of Restless Winds stories [1]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: F/M, Gen, Holt of Restless Winds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margdean56/pseuds/margdean56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as an introductory story for my character Fourhands in the Holt of Restless Winds, the tale outlines significant events in his past that helped make him what he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tumbleweed's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Holt of Restless Winds characters other than Fourhands himself were created by other people.

**Fourhands is back!**

The open sending from Watcher brought Firestalker’s head up, from where it was bent over a mass of squiggles scratched in the hard-packed earth near the central firepit of the Holt of Restless Winds’ permanent encampment. Across from her, the elf who had made the squiggles looked up too. “Who?” he asked mildly.

Arin was a recent arrival in the Holt of Restless Winds. Tall, lean and hawk-faced, with keen ice-gray eyes and snowy hair, he had an air of indefinable age about him that had fascinated Firestalker from the first. Though he had so far fended off the redheaded huntress’s more blatant advances with evident amusement, she had at least had some interesting conversations with him, for he never tired of explaining things. Now he waved a hand toward the scratched drawing, an attempt to represent the migration patterns of several species of birds. “If it’s a friend of yours, this can certainly wait.”

“Not exactly — I mean, he’s a friend, but it’s nothing special — but he’s been away for nearly three turns of the seasons. Usually he shows up every turn or so, sometimes two. We were afraid something might have happened to him. He wanders around a lot on his own and you never know what he might have run into.”

Arin nodded. “Shall we go and meet him, then? There seems to be a general migration in that direction.” He inclined his head toward the river that bounded the sun-up edge of the holt. Several of the other holt elves, including Chieftess Keenblade, were moving that way. The figures of an elf and a laden animal could be seen picking their way among the stones of the ford that spanned the river here. Firestalker and Arin rose to join the welcoming party. But the adult elves were soon overtaken by a racing, shrieking stampede of the holt’s children.

“Fourhands! It’s Fourhands!”

Firestalker rolled her eyes. “Uh-oh, somebody tipped off the cubs. Even Keenblade is going to have trouble getting a word in edgewise.”

The lone traveler leading a tired burro up the riverbank looked up and smiled as the children reached him. He was on the tall side for an elf (though not nearly Arin’s height), lean and brown: well-worn brown leathers, straight, sunstreaked brown hair, skin deeply tanned and creased by fine lines that spoke of long acquaintance with sun and wind, far from any healer’s smoothing touch. His only concessions to brighter colors were the green band around his peaked hat, which also bore a nodding panache of brown and white feathers, a narrow neckband of dyed and braided fiber, and the gold ring that gleamed in one ear. But there was warmth in his gray eyes and laughter in his voice as he responded to the eager questions flung at him by the excited children.

“Yes, I know I’ve been gone a long time. No, obviously a bear didn’t eat me. I just took a longer way round than usual. Yes, of course I did, there’s things for all of you in my packs, but you’ll have to wait till I’m settled in. Yes, of course I’ll be giving a show later — I have some new stories, too. The burro’s name is Hammerhoof, and you’re going to find out why in about two heartbeats if you don’t stand away from his hind end!” This last was said in a sharper tone to Slenderweed, who was gazing curiously at the animal from only a few feet away.

The boy backed off obediently. “What happened to Spotty?” he demanded.

Fourhands pulled a solemn face. “It was a tough winter.”

The elf-child looked horrified. “You didn’t — _eat_ her?”

The brown elf chuckled. “No. But I had to turn her loose when I hit the mountains and the grass got too thin to feed her. I expect she’s found a new herd and a fine young stallion by now. This fellow I got from the trolls. He was headed for the stewpot after he broke the stable master’s shin, but I rescued him and we came to an understanding.” He patted the burro’s nose and it flicked a long ear at him.

While the children stared with a certain amount of awe at the doughty animal who had kicked a troll and lived to tell the tale, Fourhands glanced over their heads in Keenblade’s direction. But before he could say anything to the chieftess, a shrieking elfin projectile came hurtling at him from the heart of the encampment. “Fourhands!”

“Tangle, my lovely!” He caught up the curly-haired elf maid in his arms as she cannoned into him, and swung her around. “I swear you get prettier every time I see you.” Over Tangle’s shoulder he met eyes briefly with her mother, Tawn, who shook her head. An expression of sadness flickered over his face and his arms tightened a little around the girl.

She pulled away from him, shaking her coppery hair out of her face, and held out an object she had been clutching. It was a battered wooden doll, clad in a somewhat grimy but lovingly mended blue dress. Despite its age, it had been skillfully crafted, each limb jointed so that it could be moved freely. “Make Gummy dance for me,” Tangle demanded.

“All right, all right. But I’ll need my flute for that. Put her down on the ground and make a space.” While Fourhands turned and rummaged in one of the topmost packs piled on Hammerhoof’s back, Tangle plopped herself and Gummy to the ground and cleared a small circle of earth. The other children clustered around her. Fourhands extracted a wooden double flute from the pack and squatted down by the circle, where the doll lay in a heap. Putting the flute to his lips, he began a slow tune. As the children watched, the doll lifted its head, sat up and raised its arms like an awakened sleeper having a stretch. As the tune became faster, it bounded to its feet and began a lively dance. The children laughed and clapped. Tangle shrieked and pounded the ground in delight.

“Interesting,” Firestalker heard Arin murmur beside her. “He’s a levitator, of course. Not a lot of power involved, but the control is quite extraordinary. Do you realize he’s moving each limb independently?”

“This is nothing,” Firestalker whispered back. “You should see his puppet shows — or rather, you _will_ see them later. If he can tear himself away long enough to get settled in, that is.” She sighed. “He’s so good with the children,” she said wistfully. “It’s a pity he never had any of his own…”

 

# # # # #

 

“Fourhands, can I talk to you?”

The young plains elf glanced up from his work, a bone dagger grip on which a spiral line of running antelope had begun to take form. A smile appeared on his tanned face as he saw the speaker. “Any time, Brightcloud. You know that.” He patted the ground next to him, but the other elf shook her head.

“Not here.” She glanced over at a nearby group of elf women who were laying out basketgrass to dry and chattering among themselves.

Fourhands shrugged. “All right.” Carefully stowing his work away in the leather pouch at his belt, he rose and followed the bright-haired maiden to a small stand of spindly trees that marked a water hole. Brightcloud seated herself on a rock. He dropped down next to her and looked up into her face. “So what’s the big secret?”

She hesitated for a moment, then blurted, “I’m pregnant.”

Fourhands’ gray eyes went wide with shock, then joy lit his face. “Beloved, that’s wonderful! A child! How long have you—” He stopped as the implications of her words began to sink in. “But we haven’t — you didn’t—”

“No. I haven’t Recognized anybody.”

The sudden knot in his belly loosened a little. No, he realized, if Brightcloud had Recognized anyone, especially Fangstriker, it would be common knowledge by now. His chief-brother would have jumped at such a chance to lay sole claim to the maiden they both loved.

“It does happen once in a while,” she said, perhaps taking his silence for disbelief.

“I know … and it’s a blessing from the High Ones when it does.” He laid a brown hand on her knee and squeezed it gently. “But if you haven’t Recognized, then who—”

“I don’t know!” she burst out. “It has to be either you or Striker, it can’t be anybody else, but there’s no way I can tell which.”

“So.” Fourhands smiled without amusement. “Back to where we’ve always been.”

Brightcloud went on in a lower voice, “In a way I’ve always hoped for Recognition even though I feared the pain it would cause. At least that way the decision wouldn’t be in my hands. But this — this doesn’t solve anything.”

“It may yet.” He spoke lightly, trying to make a joke of it. “If you see the teething ring go sailing across the tent into the cub’s fist, you’ll know it’s mine, and if you find yourself fetching the teething ring when you don’t remember getting up in the first place, it’s obviously Striker’s.”

“I can’t wait that long,” Brightcloud said seriously. “Fourhands, this child has got to have a father — _one_ father — before it’s born. I can’t subject a child to that kind of — uncertainty.”

Fourhands nodded without speaking. It was hard enough for Brightcloud, he knew, loving two who loved her in return, but who bore each other too much animosity ever to consent to a three-mating. To allow an innocent child to be fought over and tugged this way and that like a bone between two jackals would be unforgivable.

 _It didn’t have to happen this way,_ he thought bitterly. _She could have made a choice turns ago and we would have abided by it. I would have, and Striker’s sense of honor wouldn’t allow him to do otherwise._ But he knew why she had not. The daughter of their small tribe’s last healer, Brightcloud was more sensitive than most to the pain of others. Whichever brother she chose, the other would still be there in the background, hurting. _Neither of us has ever been good at hiding his feelings. Even if we tried, Brightcloud would know. And it’s not as if either of us could just go away…_

 _…could we?_

He remembered again the night many turns ago when a gangly elf-youth, alone on the broad plains, heard the wind in the grasses whisper his name, his true name. There had been another call too, one that filled him with the almost irresistible urge not to return to the tribe, but to follow the wind across the horizon. Youthful pride and ties of blood and friendship had kept him from heeding the call then, but over the intervening turns of the seasons he had felt it again more than once. Perhaps if Brightcloud chose Fangstriker over him, he would follow it.

 _I could do it now. I could make it easy for her._ But he could not bring himself to make that choice yet, not while there was a chance of his being the father of Brightcloud’s child. Unless she had already chosen. Was that why she’d wanted to speak with him? “Have you — made a decision yet?” he asked her, almost afraid to meet her eyes.

She shook her head. “No, not yet. There’s still time.” There was a note of desperation in her soft voice. “I need time to think. And the longer I wait, the better chance there is that I’ll be able to sense something — definite. I want to be fair, Fourhands!”

“I know,” he said, thinking to himself that that had been the problem all along.

He touched her belly gently. “How long?”

“At least a turn and a half. More, really.”

He nodded. “Have you told Striker?”

“Not yet. I wasn’t sure myself for a while, so I asked Milk. She confirmed it this morning. I’ll tell him when he gets back from the hunt.” Fourhands was a bit ashamed of the pleasure he felt at being ahead of Striker in hearing the news. To quash it, he opened himself once more to the greater joy that a child, any child, would soon be born to the tribe.

He smiled up at Brightcloud. “Be happy,” he said. “Who knows — you may be carrying the tribe’s next chief. Or its next healer.”

That brought a tentative answering smile from her. Ever since her father’s death two hands of turns ago, she regretted more than ever that she had not inherited his powers along with his sensibilities. “Who knows?” she echoed softly. She got to her feet.

Fourhands rose with her and took her in his arms, stroking the luminous white-gold hair that gave Brightcloud her tribe-name. “Whatever your decision, beloved, I make you this promise,” he murmured into her ear. “As long as I am here, your child will never want for love.”

 

# # # # #

 

Late in the afternoon, as Arin and Firestalker were crossing the camp in the direction of the river, they noticed a weatherbeaten tent going up in the shade of a large fluffwood tree. “I see Fourhands finally got to talk to the chieftess,” Firestalker remarked.

The brown elf squatted in the lee of the tent, driving in tent pegs and talking with Tigerflight and Leafdream while the couple’s small son, Taumsong, played with a handful of bright pebbles nearby. As Arin and Firestalker strolled past, Fourhands rose and moved on to the next tent rope. A brown hand reached out and a peg flew into it from the pile that lay not far away from the rest of his gear. The movement attracted the attention of Taumsong, who crawled over to the mound of baggage. One chubby hand groped for a pack rope that dangled enticingly near, but before he could grab it and bring the whole pile down on his head, the rope twitched up out of his reach. Fourhands had not even turned around.

Arin chuckled. “Not only four hands, but eyes in the back of his head. Are you sure he never had children of his own?” he asked Firestalker.

“Pretty sure. I asked him once and he said he hadn’t.”

“Hm. He’s not a native, then.”

“No — though he’s been coming here so long it’s sometimes hard for me to remember that. I used to be one of those cubs racing across the camp screaming ‘Fourhands! Fourhands!’ When he first turned up, Bonebreaker was still chief and the permanent camp hadn’t even been thought of, much less settled.”

“Where did he come from originally?”

“No one knows. He has plenty of stories of things he’s seen in his travels, but he never talks much about himself. I don’t think he likes to. That time I asked him about the children … well, he answered the question, but he didn’t volunteer anything more. He wasn’t unfriendly about it or anything, just…”

“Reticent,” Arin supplied.

“That’s a good word for it.”

“Hm. It may be just natural modesty, but in my experience there’s usually a reason behind the reticence.” The old elf cocked an eyebrow. “A Tragic Past, perhaps.”

Firestalker nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve often wondered…”

 

# # # # #

 

This Hot-time had been unusually dry. The afternoon sun blazed in the cloudless sky and a hot wind rattled the desiccated grass stems as Fourhands made his way through them, parting the stalks with care. At last he found what he was looking for, the tunnel-like pathway through the grass that marked a hopper trail. With a nod of satisfaction, he stooped to the trail and drew a length of thin, strong cord from his belt pouch. He took his time about setting the snare, making sure no telltale disarray of the grass marked his handiwork. When the cord was in place, he rose and stretched. That was the last of them. Tomorrow morning he would return for his catch, if any. He rather thought there would be. With water and green food as scarce as they were this season, the hoppers had to range farther and more often from their holes. So some would be caught, thin and scrawny to be sure, but nonetheless providing sustenance for the elf tribe. And the remaining hoppers would be that much more likely to survive the drought as the competition for available food decreased. It was part of the natural order of things that death served life.

Fourhands squinted up at the daystar. It was early enough that Brightcloud and her friends should still be digging for water-root in the yellow sand wash. Perhaps he would swing over in that direction before returning to camp. If the six elves had been digging for most of the day, a fresh pair of hands — or two, he thought, grinning — would be welcome. He never missed an opportunity these days to be near Brightcloud, whose increasing roundness only made her more beautiful in his eyes.

The bright-haired maiden had not made her decision yet, despite pressure from many directions. When her pregnancy became known, it seemed that everyone in the tribe had an opinion on whose offspring the coming child was, or should be. Brightcloud had been the unwilling recipient of so much unsought advice that one night at council she finally lost her temper and screamed at them all to leave her alone. Such an outburst from the gentle healer’s daughter shocked everybody. Since then, no one had spoken to her about the matter, not even Fangstriker. But the tension remained, as palpable as the crackling in the air before a skyfire storm. The chief had become even more moody and ill-tempered than usual, and Brightcloud’s drawn, haunted look was not due simply to the hardships of the drought. As for Fourhands, he found himself making all sorts of excuses to get away from the camp and out onto the open plains, when he wasn’t inventing reasons to be near Brightcloud. Either way, he avoided his brother as much as possible. Fangstriker was out hunting today, though, so Fourhands felt reasonably safe in seeking out Brightcloud’s company.

The pleasurable anticipation of seeing his lovemate was enough to mask the feeling of unease that grew in him as he approached the yellow sand wash. Only when the rim of the gully was in sight did Fourhands consciously realize something was wrong. He could hear no elfin voices, though the gathering of water-roots was normally accompanied by lively conversation and gossip. The only sound was the wind in the grass. Even the scattered bird calls had gone silent.

Alarmed, Fourhands reached out in sending. No answering mind-touch met his. Fighting down a qualm of fear, he forced himself to think clearly. They might have finished early and gone back to camp. But that would not explain the silence of the birds, nor the strange odor that drifted toward him from the gully.

“Brightcloud!” Abandoning caution, Fourhands sprinted to the edge of the wash and looked down. “No!” Spades and collecting bags lay scattered on the yellow sand below him. Here and there were signs of digging, but there were no elves to be seen. The sand was marred by the prints of large, five-toed feet. Humans!

Fourhands’ tribe had always shared and sometimes disputed their territory with the round-eared ones. Normally the two peoples kept out of each other’s way as much as they could. But several turns ago a more aggressive tribe of humans had migrated into the area. Elfin scouts reported that they often attacked other human tribes. One witnessed a bloody ritual in which captives were slaughtered to the accompaniment of strange chants and wild dances. Other scouts, sent to confirm these tales, had not returned. Chief Tallwatcher had ordered the rest of his tribefolk to avoid the newcomers; his elder son continued the policy when he succeeded his father. In addition, a lookout was always posted whenever a group left the camp. Brightcloud’s group would surely have done this. Fourhands glanced over at the rocky outcropping not far from the opposite bank of the wash. The sentinel should have been there.

**Longview?** he sent. There was no response but the buzzing of flies and the harsh croak of a carrion bird. Heart racing, Fourhands bounded down into the wash and scrambled up the farther bank. A hand of ravens flapped skyward as he reached the outcropping. The elfin sentinel lay among the rocks, his spear not far from his dead hand, the back of his skull caved in by a sling stone.

 _Didn’t even have time to send,_ Fourhands thought bleakly, stooping to the body. His alarm increased as he examined it. In the blazing heat it had not grown cold, but it had stiffened noticeably. How long ago had this happened? Why was there no alarm? He ran back to the wash. There were no signs of a struggle. The strange odor he had noted before lingered in the still air at the gully’s bottom. A dizzying wave of it rose to his nostrils as his feet churned up the dry sand. He reeled against the bank of the gully. Herb powders, he realized. He’d heard stories of trolls using such things to take captives alive, but he had never heard of humans learning the  
trick. Evidently some of them had. And they had used it to capture—

**Brightcloud!**

There was no response from his lovemate, but a concerned sending came back from Little Silver, the camp guard. **Fourhands? What’s wrong?**

Quickly Fourhands sent what he had found in the yellow sand wash. Then he added, **I’m going after them.**

**Fourhands, don’t. Fangstriker said—**

**I don’t give a mound of flaming zwoot dung what Fangstriker said!**

**At least wait till we can get a hunting party together and—**

**There isn’t time for that, curse it! It must be at least half a day since they were captured. High Ones, Silver, do you think I’m going to try to rescue them all by myself? I just have to find out…**

**I understand. Go on, then. We’ll follow as fast as we can.**

Fourhands was only a fair tracker, but the humans left a trail anyone could follow, kicking up the sand and trampling the grasses with their heavy feet. The tracks led him down the wash where it swung around the outcropping, then out onto the plain in the direction of sun-goes-down. He traveled as fast as he could with a minimum of stealth. Fear for Brightcloud dulled his natural caution. Besides, by all the signs, the humans would be far ahead.

The sun was near the horizon when he finally halted, panting, to drink a little from his waterskin. There was still no sign of the humans apart from their tracks, but he tried another sending, this one locked in to one mind alone. **Brightcloud!**

A response came at last, shaky and faint, from near the edge of his range. **Fourhands?**

**Beloved! Thank the High Ones you’re alive! Where are you? We’re coming to—**

**No!** The sending was stronger this time, sharpened by fear and pain. **Fourhands, go back! It’s too late. The others are … dead. The humans killed them … some kind of ritual … and I…** The sending broke off.

Fourhands sprinted along the trail, sending frantically. **Brightcloud!**

**Go back!** she sent again. **Oh beloved, go back they’re going to kill me anyway and I don’t want you to die too oh please…**

He stumbled and fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. **No! _No!_ **

**Please don’t come here,** she begged. **Warn the tribe. Tell them to stay away. I don’t want anyone to see … it’s too horrible…** Her mind-voice teetered on the edge of hysteria.

Fourhands took a deep breath, trying to fight down his own anguish in the face of Brightcloud’s. **Show me,** he demanded. **Give it to me, beloved. You don’t have to bear it alone. If I can’t save you, at least I can be with you in spirit. Please.** He felt her spirit’s struggle as she tried to refuse his support, fearful of giving pain. But the death-fear was stronger. The barriers gave way. All at once he was with her, seeing through her eyes…

…leaping flames and wildly dancing human forms … a ring of tall wooden poles from which elfin corpses dangled, naked, white and drained of blood … blood from clay vessels spattering the ground like rain while clouds of smoke billowed overhead … one’s own wrists bound above one’s head as one hung an elf’s height above the ground, arm and shoulder muscles aching, eyes stinging from the smoke and from tears of fright while the drums thundered and the voices chanted harshly … a human with a headdress of bone and a keen black stone knife, his hands and arms bloody to the elbow, whose whirling dance brought him ever closer … the certain knowledge that one would soon die in pain, far from friends and kin…

**You are not alone, beloved,** he sent. **I am here.**

Her soul-star clung to his, drawing what little comfort she could from his presence. **I must tell you,** she whispered in his mind, **tell you who I am before I die. I am Rayna, beloved, friend of your body and spirit.**

The gift he had hoped for but never dared to ask was his: her soul name, all that she was. A bittersweet gift, when soon it would be all he had left of her.

**I am Prath, beloved,** he sent back, offering in return his whole self and soul, becoming one with her to share her suffering.

**Prath,** her mind-voice murmured. **I wish — I wish I could tell you I loved you best, but I can’t, not in sending. I always loved you both so much. That was what made it so hard … why I could never decide … to give up one of you… Oh beloved, can you ever forgive me?**

**If you can forgive me,** he answered. **If Striker and I could have been brothers in more than blood, you would never have been faced with that choice.**

**Make peace with him, Prath,** she pleaded. **Tell him that I am Rayna, and that I loved him, and that I’m sorry, and—**

**I will tell him, beloved,** he promised, **and I will try to make peace with him, if he will let me.** It was all he could promise in sending, but it was enough. There was no time for more. The knife-wielding human was almost upon them.

**You would have made a good father, Prath,** she murmured. Then her mind-voice rose to a scream. **Oh Prath, don’t leave me, don’t leave me he’s coming…**

**Rayna, I’m here, I won’t leave you alone…** His spirit held hers to him with all its strength, through the terror and the rending pain, the grief for herself and him and Striker and their unborn child, never to know a father now. But in the end he could not hold her. Her soul slipped from his grasp, leaving only a wisp of brightness and the echo of her name.

When the hunting party caught up with him at last, they found him lying stretched upon the sand, the last of his tears soaking into the parched earth.

 

# # # # #

 

Most of the holt was gathered by the central fire that evening to watch Fourhands’ puppet show. The children sat in front while their elders sat or stood behind them, the rows becoming less and less orderly the farther back they extended. The wanderer had put by his well-worn traveling clothes and was decked out in a bright vest, full-sleeved shirt, tights and bandanna in shades of orange, red and yellow. Earlier in the evening he had run through the latest additions to his repertoire and was now in the midst of an old favorite, something called “The Troll and the Elf-Maid”. Bursts of merriment punctuated the tale as a lovestruck troll repeatedly scurried into his cave to bring forth ever more extravagant and unlikely treasures to lay at the feet of a scornful lady elf. The higher the teetering pile became, the more vehement were her gestures of refusal. The audience laughed even louder when the pile collapsed on top of the unfortunate suitor. The stumpy wooden figure crawled out from under the wreckage and disappeared into the cave again. The children squirmed and poked each other in anticipation. At last the troll re-emerged, holding something behind his back. He shambled up to the elf-maid and bashfully extended a single limp flower. Her hands flew up in exaggerated delight. A moment later the two figures were dancing merrily to the strains of the double flute.

Firestalker, snuggled close to Blackcloak as she watched, heard Arin’s explosive chuckle from her other side. “So. Love conquers all, eh?” the old elf remarked.

Firestalker grinned at him. “Or whatever.”

“Yes, there’s two versions of that tale,” Blackcloak commented. “In the other one — the one he sometimes shows when the cubs aren’t around — what the troll shows the elf-maid at the end _isn’t_ a flower.”

“You might call it a _stem_ ,” his lovemate added. “A lo-o-o-ong one.” Both elves snickered.

“I’ve heard him call that the trollish version,” Blackcloak finished.

“He visits troll communities too, then,” Arin deduced.

“Oh yes. Trolls, humans, other elf tribes — he goes everywhere,” Firestalker replied. “Always has interesting trade items and interesting tales. He just never seems to settle down anywhere.” She looked over at Fourhands, whose gray eyes gleamed merrily at his audience over the flute. “He’s such a contented wanderer,” the huntress mused. “So many of them are grim or bitter, or have that hunted look, or seem like they’re searching for something. He always looks like he’s found it.”

Blackcloak glanced at his lovemate. “Do you put me in the ‘grim and bitter’ category, Stalker?” he asked amusedly.

“You certainly were when you came here,” she replied, tracing his facial scar with one finger. “But we fixed that.” She grinned and slipped an arm around his waist, then turned a speculative eye on Arin. “I haven’t figured you out yet.”

Arin smiled, the laugh lines deepening around his eyes and mouth. “Oh, I’m on my way home,” he said blandly. “I’m just taking the scenic route.”

“Mm-hmm. But Fourhands… He’s such a friendly sort, he must have had roots somewhere. It’s just like, one day he tucked them up and went rolling away on the wind like a tumbleweed.”

“It can’t have been that easy,” Blackcloak objected.

“Well, maybe not…”

 

# # # # #

 

A dark scud of clouds covered the sky as Fourhands crossed the camp toward Fang-striker’s tent. It was the first time he had been on his feet since Brightcloud’s death, for the combination of anxiety, physical exertion in the hot sun, pushing his sending powers to the limit on her behalf, and at last the emotional and psychic shock of her death had left him weak and drained. The hunting party had to carry him back to camp. But though his step was slower than usual, he walked purposefully, shoulders squared.

Fourhands had several motives for seeking out his chief-brother. In the forefront of his mind he held Rayna’s dying wish that he and Fangstriker should make peace with each other. Too, his heart ached for the comfort of sorrow shared. He remembered vividly one of the few moments of sympathy between himself and his brother, the day their mother died. To his mind rose the image of the thin, brown elf-child he had been, no more than twelve turns old, huddled miserably in one corner of the family’s tent, curled around the painful picture of Wavengrass’s pale, still face. Striker had found him there. Fourhands remembered the young warrior’s rough, clumsy embrace, his whispered words made huskier by his own pain.

“It’s all right, little brother. I’m here. I’ll protect you, I promise.” The child had clung to him and let the tears flow at last. Even then, Striker had not wept, but the two of them drew closer that day than they had ever been before or since. Perhaps Brightcloud’s death could reconcile their spirits once more, as their mutual loss had done those many turns ago.

Fourhands reached the chief’s tent and lifted the flap. Fangstriker turned to confront him, his green eyes bright and hard in his angular face beneath his snakeskin headband. Another memory leaped into Fourhands’ unwilling mind. Wavengrass had died from the bite of a poisonous snake. Afterwards her elder son tracked down the reptile and killed it, thereby earning his present tribe-name. Turns later, he still wore the symbol of his vengeance.

“Striker,” Fourhands asked bluntly, stepping into the tent and letting the flap fall, “what’s this I hear about a war?”

The chief gave him a curt nod. “Two days,” he replied. “In two days’ time, I shall lead all of our able warriors against the round-ears. Will you be ready?”

Fourhands stared at him in shock. “No! Striker, that’s senseless! You can’t—”

“I can and I will,” Fangstriker interrupted harshly. “I am chief. Our tribefolk will be avenged. I have sworn it.”

Fourhands made a disgusted noise. “All you’ll do is get a lot more of our tribefolk killed, and for nothing. Do you think that will bring back the dead, or appease their spirits somehow?”

“It will show those round-eared filth what it means to murder our folk.”

“Striker, the humans outnumber us. They are larger and stronger and they are well armed, not to mention the herb powders they used to capture Brightcloud and the others. What do you hope to accomplish?”

Fangstriker looked at him with contempt. “Are you afraid of the round-ears, brother?”

“Cursed right I’m afraid — afraid you’ll slaughter the whole tribe in the name of vengeance. And sick, sick to death of blood and pain…” His eyes closed briefly as he relived the anguish of Brightcloud’s death. If Striker had experienced it as he had, would he be so quick to spill more blood? Perhaps that was part of the trouble, Fourhands realized suddenly. Fangstriker had not been there to rescue his beloved, or even to lend her his strength and support in the face of death as Fourhands had. Jealousy and the sense of having failed her must rankle in the chief’s proud spirit.

Fourhands opened his eyes and searched his brother’s grim face. “Striker,” he said more softly, “do you really think Brightcloud would want to be avenged that way — Brightcloud, who never wished harm to anything that lived?” He switched to sending, reaching out to touch his brother’s mind. **My brother, Brightcloud gave me a gift before she died and charged me to share it with you. She told me to tell you that she was Rayna, and that she loved you. Her last wish was that the two of us be reconciled one to the other. Brother, can’t you put aside this insane desire for vengeance? Make peace with yourself and with her memory. Let it go, Striker, please.**

**No!** Fourhands reeled from the impact of Fangstriker’s sending, afire with bitter rage. The chief’s hands were clenched, the bones showing starkly in his drawn face. “I will avenge you, my beloved,” he whispered harshly. His burning eyes turned on Fourhands. “And _you_ will not oppose me.”

The younger elf felt the mental pressure of Fangstriker’s Talent as the chief attempted to bend his brother’s will to his own. Fourhands’ barriers snapped up with practiced ease. “Striker,” he said disgustedly, “that hasn’t worked on me since before I found my own Talent. You know that. You used it once too often on your kid brother and you wore it out! You may be chief of this tribe now, but you still can’t force me to go along with your insane war!”

Fangstriker took a step toward him. “Do you challenge me then, brother?” His voice was low and menacing.

Fourhands turned away. “No, Striker, I’m not going to challenge you. I know you’re stronger than I am — we don’t need to test it. Even if you weren’t, I really don’t want to be chief of this tribe and never have. If we’d ever taken the time to know each other better, you’d realize that. I didn’t come here to fight you, just to try to make you see reason — and to give you Brightcloud’s message. Now, are you going to listen to me or are you going to play silly dominance games?” He turned back to his brother. The chief’s hard eyes meeting his gave him his answer. His own gaze dropped, again refusing the challenge. “All right,” he said softly, “all right. I’ve done what I could. Now I’ll leave.” He turned to go.

“Two days, brother,” Fangstriker said warningly.

Fourhands halted in the act of raising the tent flap and stared over his shoulder at the chief. “Striker, didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m leaving. Tonight. It shouldn’t take me more than half a watch to put together a carrypack. Two days from now I’ll be halfway to the mountains.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “You’ll just have to start the war without me.” His face grew serious once more. “I won’t be coming back. Goodbye, Striker. I don’t suppose we’ll ever see each other again.” He ducked out of the tent and let the flap fall behind him before the startled chief could make any reply.

 

# # # # #

 

The puppet show was over at last, the children dispersed to their sleep-furs along with a good many of the adult elves. Near the fire, Fourhands was busy dismantling his small stage and packing it away. Arin stood up and glanced down at Firestalker and Blackcloak. “I think it’s time you introduced us,” he suggested, motioning toward Fourhands.

The lovemates were happy to oblige. Fourhands looked up from his work and flashed a grin at them as they approached. Blackcloak made the necessary introductions. Arin noted that the wanderer bobbled only slightly when he realized he had been presented with the newcomer’s soul name. A surprised stare, a couple of blinks, and then he was smiling again and saying, “Pleased to meet you, Arin.”

“I enjoyed your show,” the old elf told him. “I must admit I’m curious about you, though. Would you mind telling me something?”

There was just the barest hint of guardedness in Fourhands’ tone as he replied, “What’s that?” Arin caught it and chuckled.

“Don’t worry, I don’t intend to probe your Tragic Past. In my experience, things that are dead and buried are best left that way. But I would like to know—” He gestured toward the half-dismantled stage and the limp wooden puppets lying in a heap beside it. “How long did it take you to learn how to do that? I’m a levitator myself, you see.” Fourhands grinned, relaxed, and proceeded to tell him.

 

# # # # #

 

The rain started near what would have been sunrise if the sun had been visible. The lone elf with the small pack on his shoulders looked up as the first few drops began to fall, letting them strike his upturned face, and smiled a little. The drought had broken at last. Soon the plains would grow green again.

He halted in midstride as a thought struck him, along with a flash of memory — blood spattering the dust, drums thundering, smoke in clouds above. “By the High Ones!” he murmured. “Those crazy humans … they were trying to make it rain!” So simple — it even made a weird kind of sense. Life for life, the way of the world. It did not make Brightcloud’s death easier to bear, but it did give it a place in the pattern of existence. Cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

Yet Fourhands realized he no longer needed comfort. Let the sky weep for her and bring forth life in so doing, as she would have wished. His tears had been shed, his grieving done. All the loves and hatreds of his young life were behind him, and while he would not forget them, they no longer bound him. He was free—free at last to heed the call, to follow the wind across the horizon. Free to be what he had always been, deep inside.

The wanderer looked up at the weeping sky and laughed, hitched up his pack on his lean shoulders, and walked on toward the distant mountains. A few moments later he began to whistle.

 

THE END


End file.
